


Advent XVIII

by Tammany



Series: Assorted Advent Stories, Christmas 2014, All-sorts, some connected. [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent, Christmas, Dysfunctional Family, Families of Choice, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Gen, Sherlock Grows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:59:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2763944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And this is the equally unsettled scene between the men of the family (and baby Em) waiting for Mycroft to come down.</p><p>John kind of wishes he and Mary had stayed home and celebrated in their own living room with their own tree and their own amazing lack of family and family dynamics, I think.... Though one would expect they'd both find this first Christmas difficult, what with one thing and another. I myself think they were right to accept Mycroft's invitation...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent XVIII

_Children go where I send thee!_

_How shall I send thee?_

_I’m gonna send thee four by four;_

_Four for the four who stood at the door._

_Three for the Hebrew children._

_Two for Paul and Silas._

_One for the little bitty baby_

_Who was born, born, born in Bethlehem…_

Father sang and chuckled and made grownup faces at Little Em, who sat like a queen in John’s arms. He, Father, and Sherlock watched over her in one corner of the kitchen where breakfast food was set aside, while the rest of the room went mad with preparations.

“Ba,” Little Em said, forcefully. “Ba-ba-ba-ba” Then, staring sternly at Father, she said one more time for good measure, “Ba,” and pointed at his nose.

“Well there we go, then,” John said, amused and slightly surprised. “Looks like you are chosen, Mr. Holmes.”

“Father,” Siger said, smiling, and put out his hands for Little Em, tucking her into the turn of his elbow, supported securely against his chest. “I’m fine with Father. All the boys' friends called me that.”

Sherlock snorted. “Friends? What friends?”

Father sighed. “All right. Acquaintances. You did have some, Sherlock. There were even a few you brought back from Eton and from uni. That Trevor boy, for example.”

Sherlock shrugged and looked away, scowling. “Hardly a statistical universe.”

“He only needs two between you and Mycroft to be justified in the term,” John pointed out with a grin. He watched the older man feed his daughter pieces of tangerine and slices of banana. “You’ve got the knack, I must say. I’m not half so talented.”

“Years of experience,” Father said.

Sherlock scowled more darkly, but said nothing.

“Well—if you don’t mind, I’d be happy to name you her honorary grandfather. Mary and me, we’ve nothing on either side.” He sighed. “So far as I know, anyway. And I doubt Mary will mind.”

Father lit up. “That would be grand, now. Grand. Imagine—me! A grandfather! And just when I’d given up hope.” Then he paused, and said, “I…you should ask Mummy, first.”

“Oh, that will be a successful tactic,” Sherlock drawled.

“Ba,” said Little Em. “Ba-ba.”

John looked back and forth, sure there was something going on, not sure what. Yes, he could see he’d put his foot in it where Mummy Holmes was concerned. Maybe. A bit- But surely the loss of a child years before wasn’t enough to sour her on honorary grandparenthood now?

“We never put pressure on, son,” Father said, wearily.

“You didn’t need to,” Sherlock snapped back. “After Mycroft, all eyes were on me and my genetic potential.”

Father, forever patient, snapped, then. “It’s not a crime for a woman to hope for grandchildren, Sherlock. Her right to choose may stop at your vast and mighty brain, but her right to hope was earned.”

Sherlock was as angry. “Oh, yes. Earned. Like having a constant blanket wrapped around me every minute. ‘Are you well, Billy,’ ‘Are you hungry, Billy,’ ‘Are you tired, Billy?’ Is it earned when it’s far more than needed and infinitely more than is welcome, Father?”

“She loves you,” Father said, softly. “That’s all, son. She loves you.”

“She turned me into her life,” Sherlock growled. “Do you have any idea what that is like?”

“And you rejected her for it. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

John studied them both: Sherlock was in high-tempest mode, his tousled curls tossing and quivering with each angry statement. His eyes—how did that man end up with blue eyes, when they burned so very dark?

Between the two men hung the ghost of a baby Sherlock never knew…a baby that to him would always be little more than family fiction, an excuse for abuse, not a reason for special care and affection.

“She loves babies, son. Really—you should have seen her. She loves them.” Father turned away then, blinking back what must have been tears. When a kitchen hand stopped at the table to drop off a fresh basket of hot scones, he used it as an excuse to change the subject.  “Here, have a taste of scone, little one. John, she’s old enough to try a bit, isn’t she?”

“We’ve been letting her sample what she wants, lately,” John said, willing to ignore the wicked currents still roiling beneath the surface. “Scone is fine—just not too large a lump, yet.”

“Dipped in honey? Are you letting her have honey, yet?”

“Better not. She’s not quite one, and while it’s picky—jam, maybe?”

“Jam it is.”

“You spoil her, you know,” Sherlock said, and both older men knew he wasn’t talking about the baby.

“Maybe she needs some spoiling,” John said, quietly.

“It’s been almost forty years.” There is no forgiveness there. No understanding.

“So, what—you’re the only one in the family who deserves spoiling?” John had been given years to know Sherlock, now. He might be the one person in the world who knew, bone deep, that the question was due and long overdue. That Sherlock could bear it. “All the attention for you?”

Sherlock was frozen and still with rage. “You don’t know what it was like.”

“I do know you’ve tried to keep it. Build on it.”

“I…” Sherlock faltered—Sherlock, who so seldom faltered. “I’ve tried,” he said. “I’ve tried…”

He hadn’t words. John understood. To be words there would have had to be confession, and Sherlock had barely reached the stage to admit remorse to himself, much less detail it to others.

“Yeah,” John said, gruff but not giving way. “But, hell, Sherlock…they’re just human. Parents are, you know? Em’s going to have her own things to say about me and Mary when she’s grown—because we’re human.”

Sherlock huffed and turned, but not before his fondness for John and Mary shimmered in his eyes, and not before his face shifted as comprehension struck, and he compared Mummy and Father to Mary and John.

Just human. Flawed—deeply flawed. Trying hard but often failing. But good parents, in spite of that.

“When’s Mycroft coming down?” Sherlock grumbled. “Big baby.”

John and Father exchanged glances and let the slight pass. Sherlock was Sherlock, and one emotional advance in the space of an hour was probably as much as they could expect of him. Father jigged Little Em on his hip, and said, “When he’s ready, son. Give him time—he’ll come down when he’s ready.” He cradled the little girl tenderly, and sang in a voice that showed too much age and sorrow,

_The holly bears a berry_

_As red as any blood_

_And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ_

_To do poor sinners good._

Sherlock joined in, his deep voice carrying his father’s, like St. Christopher carried the Christ Child through the torrent…

_The rising of the sun_

_The running of the deer_

_The playing of the merry organ_

_Sweet singing in the choir._

John gritted his teeth, remembering too well why it was always a bad idea to spend Christmas with family—anyone’s family.

It was a relief when, at last, Lestrade shouted down the stairway, and the sound of rejoicing replaced foreshadowing, and the whole estate greeted Mycroft’s stately descent.


End file.
